


An Offer of Immortality

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Biting, Challenge Response, Eventual Smut, Frottage, Halloween, Immortality, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magical Realism, Multiple Lives, Sexual Content, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, but maybe not vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:46:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2472077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock arrive at an isolated country estate for a case, only John doesn’t know who the client is. He soon finds out, and is given an extraordinary offer of immortality. First, though, he must complete a midnight ritual with Sherlock.</p><p>Written for Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 16: Something wicked this way comes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote for fun for Halloween (one of my favorite holidays) and for the LWS Challenge 16. Comments always welcome!

John sat on the edge of the bed looking at the dark wood walls and heavy burgundy curtains, wondering what the hell was going on. He and Sherlock had driven hours to this crumbling, drafty old country estate for a case that Sherlock had described only as a “complicated inheritance matter.”

Sherlock had been silent most of the way, sunk into a black mood that almost left John wishing he could have stayed back in London. When they had arrived, no one was there to greet them, and Sherlock had simply gone straight into the house, offering a gruff, “We’re expected. It’s fine,” when John had looked at him questioningly.

John had followed him inside, noting the stone walls and wood beams, the cheerless paintings hanging in the hallway, the stiff upholstered furnishings, the faded wool rugs covering the floors.

“Are we meeting the client here?” John finally asked, flicking on a light switch to reassure himself there was actually working electricity.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied pulling off his gloves and scarf. “In due time. We’re staying here tonight. There are rooms prepared for us upstairs.”

John watched him, noticing how exhausted he looked as he rubbed a hand across his forehead.

“Are you feeling all right?” John asked.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Headache. Migraine, or something.” He shook his head slightly. “A rest will help.” He started toward the stairs, his fingers lingering over his eyes. “Make yourself at home.”

“Can I get you something? There’s a pharmacy back in the town -- ”

“No.” Sherlock waved John’s offer away. “I just need some rest.”

John almost took a step forward, concerned at how pale Sherlock suddenly looked, but stopped when Sherlock muttered, “I’ll talk to you later, Watson.”

 _Watson?_ Sherlock never called him that. It was so unusual that he stared at Sherlock’s back as he climbed the stairs and disappeared from view. John heard a door close and was left standing in the middle of the great room, befuddled by the entirety of the strange day.

Fine, John thought. Best to get his bearings. He wandered through the house, finding the kitchen, grabbing an apple from a wooden bowl before heading outside again to bring in their bags. After dropping their gear inside the door, he soon headed outside again, wanting to stretch his legs after the long drive. The sun was already low in the sky and there was a growing chill in the autumn air as he crunched across the gravel and onto the lawn, walking toward the edge of a woods.

There were several other buildings scattered across the property, the grass ragged, a fence needing to be mended. There was an unsettling feeling of abandonment about the place, John thought, biting again into the apple. It was kept up, but just barely. Maybe the owners only came occasionally, and caretakers watched over it.

 _Another charming place Sherlock drags me to,_ he thought grimly. But then he sighed in resignation. Of course he was here; he’d go anywhere Sherlock asked him to. He couldn’t help it. Sherlock had drawn him into his orbit, and John found he couldn’t break away, despite the moods, messes, and sinister old manors that came with it.

John walked along in the lengthening shadows, trying to define exactly what it was he felt toward Sherlock. Friendship, yes, but there was another element, a current that he had immediately felt running between them, sometimes burning white hot, sometimes turning stone cold in a heartbeat. He was living in a state of constant whiplash, but those moments of intensity drew him back again and again. More and more frequently, he found himself watching Sherlock as he moved around the flat, wanting to touch the errant curls along his neck, the taut fabric straining against the buttons of his shirt...

John jumped, suddenly startled when something darted past him and crashed into the woods. His heart hammered until he realized it was a deer, probably more frightened than he was. As he gazed after the deer into the dense and dark thicket, a shiver ran up his spine. There was something very unwelcoming about those woods...

John exhaled, deciding to head back to the house and away from the tangle of trees and deserted buildings and cold, dewy grass, pushing his thoughts about Sherlock aside.

Back in the house, he picked up the bags, trudged upstairs, dropping Sherlock’s kit outside a closed door. He then found a room that smelled of wood polish and clean sheets, and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Something was odd about the whole case, he decided. No details, no client, and, at the moment, no Sherlock. Odd.


	2. Chapter 2

The evening improved slightly after a dinner cobbled together from the kitchen pantry and a glass of red wine. John found the library, built up a fire with wood that had been stacked near the grate, and selected a book about military history from the shelves. He read for a while, then checked his watch, wondering if he should look in on Sherlock. Just as the thought entered his mind, Sherlock walked into the room, still pale.

“How are you feeling?” John asked, resting the open book against his chest.

“Mm, a bit better,” Sherlock answered, sitting down in the chair opposite.

John closed the book. “So what is this all about? Who owns this place?”

Sherlock looked at John, his face expressionless as he rubbed his right temple with two fingers. “It’s a family estate,” he finally told John.

“Yes, but… nobody really seems to live here.”

“Oh, they do. On and off.”

John frowned at Sherlock. “Who’s the client?”

Sherlock continued to hold John’s gaze as if considering how much to say, his fingers still pressing against his temple. “That depends on your point of view,” he answered.

“Jesus, Sherlock, enough with the games,” John snapped, annoyed. He was used to Sherlock’s eccentricities, but this evasiveness was starting to piss him off.

Sherlock moved his gaze to the fire. “It’s not that easy to explain.”

“What, because I’m too thick to understand?”

“No,” Sherlock answered. “Because it defies explanation.”

John looked at him, knitting his brow. “What are you going on about?”

Sherlock sighed, almost speaking to himself. “This is always the hard part. I remember that much…” he turned his eyes back to John. “This property belongs to my family. I’m the client. Or, maybe it’s more accurate to say _you_ are.”

John stared at him, speechless. “You’re not serious,” he finally managed.

“I’m afraid I am. I wanted to tell you in London, but… well, it’s just easier to do it here.”

John shook his head, struggling to understand. “What,” he said a bit too loudly, growing angry, “is this all about?”

Sherlock suddenly stood up and began pacing, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “This house belongs to my family. It has for hundreds of years. I don’t come back often, but I'm required to at certain times. This is one of those times.”

John tracked him with his eyes, his mouth half open with a dozen unspoken questions.

“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it,” Sherlock continued. “I’m not quite what I seem, John. I’ve lived and died repeatedly for more than a century, and perhaps much longer than that.”


	3. Chapter 3

John looked at Sherlock, trying to decide if he was completely out of touch with reality. “That’s… not possible,” he said slowly.

“It shouldn’t be, but it is.”

John looked down at his hands, at the dark blue cover of the book he held, rechecking his own reality. “Your headache… Did you hit your head? Because you’re not making any sense.”

Sherlock shot him a withering look. “Oh, please, let’s avoid the patronizing tone. I know it sounds mad. I hold science and reason above all, and I can’t explain this, but I know it.”

“OK,” John said carefully. “Then explain what you do know.”

Sherlock sighed again. “I've had multiple lives, and often parallel lives, I suspect. In fact, there’s one record of my birth in 1887 in that family Bible right over there, if you care to look. Mycroft’s name is penned rather elaborately on the line right above mine.”

John gripped the book tighter, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. “And you… remember these past lives?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Only fragments, pieces, like dreams. But there are patterns. Things that are repeated. I’ve always lived in London. Always Baker Street. Always the Work. Coming to this house.”

This time John rubbed his forehead. “And drugs? Lots of those, too?” He said it before he could stop himself, a small panic rising in his chest, fearing for Sherlock’s sanity.

Sherlock stopped pacing. “Oh, yes,” he answered drily. “Always drugs. Can’t seem to change that.”

John ran his fingers over the book cover, his physician instincts kicking in, trying to assess a raving patient. “I want to understand,” he said as calmly as he could. “But this is… quite an extraordinary claim.”

“It is, and it’s something that I’ve only worked out over time. I wasn't born knowing all of it.”

“And… are there others like you?”

“Mycroft. Moriarty. And there are others who reappear but don’t seem to be aware of it.”

John folded his hands. “Such as?”

“Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade… Not Molly,” Sherlock hesitated. “She’s new… I can’t seem to place her.”

“Oh, just tell him,” another voice interjected impatiently.

John’s head snapped to the doorway where Mycroft Holmes now stood.

“There’s always a Dr. Watson,” Mycroft continued. “It seems there can be no Sherlock Holmes without a John Watson.”

“I was getting to that,” Sherlock said tersely. “You’re late.”

Mycroft consulted his watch. “Not really.” He crossed to the vacant chair and sat down to face John. “What my brother has been telling you is no doubt a shock, but it is, nonetheless, the truth.”

“It’s completely insane,” John replied.

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” Mycroft countered. “It’s something of our family motto.”

“So you’re saying I’ve had multiple lives," John blurted out.

“Oh, no, not you, per se. But there have been many other Dr. Watsons, yes," Mycroft answered.

John laughed. “So you two are immortal, and the rest of us are just ordinary. I should have guessed as much.”

Mycroft examined his fingernails. “Oh, we’re not immortal, exactly. We age, we can die… we _will_ die.”

“Only to come back and slowly piece it together, again and again,” Sherlock finished. “I did tell you the case involved a complicated inheritance. Persistent longevity is our inheritance.”

“Why even tell me this?” John asked, growing increasingly upset. “Why bother if I’m just an ordinary mortal like all the rest?”

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a glance. Sherlock turned his back to John, looking down into the fire.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I know many things, but I can’t claim I’ve mastered an understanding of quantum mechanics, nor can I claim to remember all of our deep history. But Sherlock and I seem to be, shall we say, _imprinted_ with certain knowledge, just as birds know when and where to migrate.”

John held his gaze evenly. “Go on.”

“There are… certain rituals. During every incarnation, Sherlock and I must return here, to this ancestral land, at least once during the three full moons of a predetermined autumn. We somehow both know when it’s time. And tonight is that night for this lifetime.”

Mycroft paused, assessing John’s reaction, then went on. “During this return, we can elect to bring a companion. That companion is then given a choice.”

John swallowed, flicked his eyes over to Sherlock, who slowly turned to face him as Mycroft continued.

“As you must have surmised by now, you are the companion Sherlock has selected,” Mycroft said. “It’s always his Watson.”

“Mycroft never brings anybody,” Sherlock retorted.

Mycroft smiled. “I may surprise you yet, brother dear.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“What choice?” John interrupted, feeling alarmed. “What the hell kind of choice?”

“You can choose to become like us,” Mycroft answered calmly. “Attain repeated lifetimes, remembering only the broadest brushstrokes of the past, but continuing in perpetuity to assist this clot with the Work.”

John laughed again out of disbelief. “But even if that were possible -- what for? What’s the point of it all?”

Sherlock and Mycroft again shared a glance. “We don’t know, exactly,” Sherlock admitted.

“However, we’ve come to assume that it’s our duty to speak for the dead, if you will. Right the wrongs, etcetera,” Mycroft finished.

John shook his head, then stood up, feeling trapped. “You’re both mad,” he said, pointing at each one in turn. They both gazed at him placidly, as if he were the crazy one.

“It is difficult to accept,” Mycroft concurred. “That’s why no one, at least in my memory, has ever agreed to it. Although, perhaps someone has, long, long ago…”

Sherlock finally stepped forward. “John, please, think it over. I know it sounds bizarre, but…” he held out his hands, “it is an exceptional opportunity.”

John stared at him. “What if I were to leave, right now?”

Sherlock’s hands dropped to his sides. “You’d simply forget everything within a few hours. You’d have no memory of this.”

"So that’s what happened to all the other Watsons, then? They just went off, forgot everything, and lived their dull lives?”

Sherlock looked down at his feet. “They continued to assist me, but I sense there was a drifting apart over time.”

John looked at Sherlock, forgetting Mycroft was in the room. “And you? What happens?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A solitary life. Something about bees I don’t quite understand.” Sherlock avoided John’s gaze.

John turned away, riddled with a thousand conflicting thoughts. His eyes landed on the large leather-bound Bible coated with dust. He haltingly walked over to it, flipped it open to the first few leaves listing births, deaths, and marriages. Then he saw it, _William Sherlock Scott Holmes, b. 1887._

John’s eyes lingered on the page and the room went silent except for the crackling of the fire.

Mycroft stood up and straightened his jacket. “I’ll retire and leave you two to discuss matters.” To John, he added, “I wouldn’t wander into the woods, Dr. Watson. It’s not a pleasant place. I’ll bid you farewell in case I don’t see you tomorrow.”

Mycroft left the room and John continued to look blindly at the page of names that ended with Sherlock’s record. The last of their family, apparently. The words began to swim together and he covered his mouth with his hand, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock finally offered.

“I don’t know what to think,” John said, completely at a loss.

“Just… stay. If you go now, there’s no second chance. That door is forever closed to you.” Sherlock crossed the few steps between them, gripped John’s arm and turned him to face him. “Please,” he said emphatically. “Stay.”

John looked at Sherlock, taking in his eyes filled with an uncharacteristic pleading, the tense set of his jaw, and every logical fibre in his body bent, nearly snapping. “I need to think,” he heard himself say. “Just… give me more time.”

Sherlock’s gripped loosened. “Take your time, but quickly."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had left John in the library, where he now stared unblinking into the embers of the fire. He couldn’t begin to rationalize the bizarre conversation he’d just taken part in, but he couldn’t exactly dismiss it, either.

The Holmes brothers were easily the most brilliant and extraordinary individuals he’d ever met, which somehow made their outlandish story almost believable.

So what if, for the sake of argument, they were telling the truth? What if he could live countless lives, solving crimes with Sherlock? John nearly laughed out loud at the mere thought of it. What would it be like to have dim memories of past lives, to see London change, to never be bored?

The alternative would be to leave now, to forget, to live out the rest of his life and end his mortal days buried under six feet of cold dirt, and that would be that. And Sherlock, supposedly, would appear again, live a new life of adventure, and find a new Watson… maybe one that would take up his offer of immortality.

John began to feel irrationally jealous at the thought of someone else taking his place, of a stranger sitting in his chair at Baker Street, listening to Sherlock rant at the telly or reel off a dazzling deduction or play a violin piece from memory. Someone who would be with him forever.

 _Goddammit,_ John thought, standing up swiftly again, pacing across the room. He was not superstitious, he did not believe in magic, but there were inexplicable things… quantum mechanics, Mycroft had said. Space, time, universes within black holes, who the hell knew.

John rolled his hand into a fist, glaring accusingly at the ceiling as if he could see Sherlock. _Dammit._

*******

Sherlock had dismissed the first knock at his bedroom door as his imagination. When he heard it a second time, he pulled open the door expecting to find Mycroft. Instead, he saw John.

“So tell me how this works, this choice,” John said before Sherlock could speak, pushing his way past him to stand in the middle of the room, looking more than slightly volatile.

Sherlock slowly closed the door and leaned his back against it, deciding not to mince words. “There's a drink. An elixir, if you will, that's to be consumed during the full moon. There’s some in the decanter right over there,” he nodded toward an elaborately gilded dark green bottle on a small serving table. ‘It never seems to run out.”

John eyed the bottle. "What is it, exactly?”

Sherlock folded his hands. “I analyzed it once. It’s botanical in origin, sharing certain traits with opiates along with other compounds I couldn’t identify.”

“And what does it do?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s part of the ritual. The effect is actually quite relaxing, and the dreams are vivid."

“So that’s it -- I just drink it and… immortality?”

Sherlock pushed himself away from the door, hesitating before answering. “I don’t know.” He saw John’s look of disbelief and quickly added, “No one’s ever accepted the offer, so I don’t know what happens to mortals. Mycroft and I must drink it every time we’re here, and so must a companion who makes the choice to continue on. I can only assume that the dream state is somehow crucial to connecting us to whatever it is that allows us to continue throughout time.”

John threw his hands in the air. “Christ, Sherlock, listen to us. Potions, rituals, full moons...”

“It sounds ridiculous, I know. I’ve fought against it for years, but finally had to accept it or go completely mad.” He stepped closer to John, suddenly intense. “The thing is, in the so-called normal course of life I don’t even think about it. It’s rarely at the forefront of my mind. Sometimes I manage to be so caught up in the present that I don’t remember the past -- the deep past -- for months at a time. Then something will trigger a whisper of a memory… You get used to it.”

“And you can keep them separate in your mind -- the line between this world and the others?”

“What’s the point of maintaining boundaries?” Sherlock asked in return, frustrated. “Why does it matter? I don’t give two fucks about why or how it happens, as long as I have the Work.”

John looked at Sherlock for several drawn-out moments, then turned away and glanced out the window, his eyes landing on the white sphere of the moon. _You only live once,_ he thought. _Or maybe longer._ Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe it didn’t matter why or how. He only knew that he wanted to be the one to accompany Sherlock, the last and eternal Dr. Watson.

John slowly walked over the the decanter, picked it up, lifted out the stopper. He sniffed at the liquid, detecting a faint scent of anise.

“When do you drink it?”

“At midnight, of course.” Sherlock checked his watch. “In 9 minutes.”

John replaced the stopper, carefully set the decanter back on the table. “This is insane. Incredibly unwise.”

A slow smile took over Sherlock’s face. “Risky. Dangerous, even.”

John looked him in the eye. “Get me a glass.”


	5. Chapter 5

They each held a goblet in their hands, cautiously watching each other, waiting for the clock on the mantle above the fireplace to strike midnight. They stood in the middle of Sherlock’s bedroom, the door closed, the fire dying in the grate.

“What about Mycroft?” John asked, breaking the silence. “Does he need to be here?”

“No. He’s off in his own room, waiting with a glass like we are.” Sherlock shifted his eyes to John’s hand. No hint of a tremor disturbed the surface of the amber-colored liquid in his glass. “You’re remarkably calm,” Sherlock noted, feeling oddly rattled himself.

“It either works or it doesn’t,” John replied matter-of-factly, sounding more confident than he really felt. “Although… shit, do I have to die first to find out?”

They looked at each other, momentarily alarmed, then burst out in a fit of nervous laughter.

“I certainly hope not,” Sherlock managed to say. “I assume we’ll just know.”

“Quantum physics, or magic, or whatever this is isn’t very precise,” John muttered.

The clock chimed once, twice, and their eyes locked, suddenly serious.

On the fifth chime of midnight, John held out his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

They touched the rims together then both tipped back the goblets, swallowing down the amber liquid. John tasted honey, smoke, green grass, and flinty mineral before a burst of other scents and flavors overwhelmed his mouth. It was harsh like whiskey at the beginning, but smooth like cream at the end, and he stared into the empty glass, amazed.

He waited, not sure what would happen next, uncertain if he felt any different. He looked up into Sherlock’s expectant gaze.

“All right?” Sherlock asked him, taking the glass from John’s hand and setting it aside.

“Yeah, I… I’m fine.” John stretched out his hand, testing his reflexes.

Sherlock tossed another log onto the fire, keeping a careful eye on John. “You may want to sit down.”

“No, I’m fine,” John said, then his legs buckled beneath him. Sherlock swiftly caught him by the arm before he fell, helped him stand upright. “Maybe I will sit,” John said, stumbling back toward the bed, sitting down hard on the mattress.

“It can come on suddenly,” Sherlock reassured him. “Just relax.”

John suddenly was enveloped in a hazy state that hovered somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, much like the delicious floating sensation just before falling asleep. He was aware of Sherlock’s voice as he continued to talk to him, vaguely felt the tug of his shoes being removed and a hand guiding his shoulder as he drifted down toward the pillows.

He felt utterly peaceful and warm, his eyes heavy, and could barely nod when Sherlock asked him how he felt. Good, he thought, I feel very, very good.

Possessed with so much goodness, John reached for Sherlock’s hand still on his shoulder, wanting to say something profound. The words would not cooperate though, and Sherlock leaned closer, trying to understand. John gazed at him through half-closed eyes, and he was struck by how unorthodoxically perfect Sherlock was.

John wanted to share that word -- _unorthodoxically_ \-- but his mouth couldn’t begin to form it. His fingers went to the lapels of Sherlock’s shirt, pulling him closer, desperately wanting to tell him. He bunched the lapel harder in his fist, drawing Sherlock still closer; maybe he could just whisper it, his breath on his cheek, his lips right there… Perfect, John sighed, out loud or not, he couldn’t tell, his mouth slowly covering Sherlock’s, his knuckles pressing against his rigid collarbone, the mix of soft and hard sensations infinitely pleasing.

John deepened the contact, and he felt Sherlock breathe in sharply, did not let go of the fabric twisted in his hand even as Sherlock drew back slightly.

“John…” Sherlock said once, reflexively, then stopped, letting himself be silenced again by John’s mouth. He hadn’t expected this. He had so deeply buried any hope that John -- John, not merely Watson -- would choose to accept his offer that he couldn’t quite fathom what was happening, but he found himself responding, willingly letting himself be carried along as inhibitions fell away.

He’d thought about this often, touching and being touched by John. He’d known since they’d first met that this John Watson was different from all the rest. Casting back, he could recall fondness, deep affection, perhaps some form of love for the others, but this… what he felt toward John now made the other dim memories pale even further. The thought of losing this John, either through time or circumstance, had made Sherlock sometimes want to push him away, shutting him out before he could invade his life any further.

The drive here had been agony, sinking Sherlock into near despair as he tried to prepare himself for the inevitable rejection. He almost hadn’t asked John to come along, but at the last moment had changed his mind, some small glimmer of hope winning out.

Now here he was, in John’s grip, and as the reality struck home, he kissed John back, hard. He pried off his shoes, letting them fall to the floor, shrugged off his suit jacket, his hands returning to John’s neck as he stretched out alongside him, hungrily kissing his mouth.

Sherlock’s limbs were growing heavier as the elixir pulled him under its influence, and they slowed to a languorous pace, lips caressing a soft spot below an ear, hands untucking shirt tails to roam up warm backs, fingers working buttons through small holes, pushing fabric off a shoulder, a thumb skimming across a nipple, a lick, a gasp.

 _Off, just get all the clothes off,_ John thought, wanting full contact, unbuckling, unzipping, undressing, discarding, running his hands down, over, across Sherlock’s pale skin, fingers sliding into his hair. Lying side by side, John wrapped a leg over Sherlock’s thigh, pulling him closer, pressing their cocks together between their bodies. They began unconsciously moving, grinding their hips together in a slow rhythm, grasping shoulders, Sherlock’s mouth on John’s neck, running up to his ear.

“I have to do something,” Sherlock said, his voice low, “for the ritual. Do you trust me?”

John shifted slightly, finding an even more sensitive spot, too lost in the moment to care. “Yes,” he managed to reply, “of course.”

“It’s only become clear to me now… I didn’t know…” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse as he fought to maintain control over his instincts. “I need to mark you,” he said, trailing his fingers down John’s throat. “Bond with you through blood…”

The words swirled nonsensically through John’s head, his hips moving, seeking more pleasure. Responding to the gentle guidance of Sherlock’s fingertips, he willingly extended his neck, turning his head to the side.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Sherlock murmured, bending his mouth again to John’s neck, his fingers against his jaw, his lips hovering above John’s slow, strong pulse “Don’t be afraid…”

John had no time to think before pain briefly shot through his body. _“Fuck!”_ John hissed through his teeth, his hands clutching at Sherlock’s shoulder blades. _He fucking bit me,_ John thought, the pain quickly fading to a not unpleasant pressure as Sherlock’s mouth sealed against his throat. John closed his eyes, subdued, giving in to what was happening. _Bond with you through blood._

Sherlock savored the hot salt-and-iron tang of John’s blood, his palm cradling John’s head. He lingered, feeling John’s pulse beating against his lips, so vulnerable. He reluctantly pulled back, sliding his fingers over the broken skin, stopping the flow of blood.

He bent his forehead low, letting it rest against John’s cheek, overwhelmed with what he’d just done. But there was one more thing. He took a breath. “Now me,” he whispered into John’s ear. “Do the same.”

John half opened his eyes, suspended in a sultry haze, somehow not shocked to hear this bizarre directive. He slowly took stock of the moment: strangely, he felt no pain, nor did he feel repulsed at the idea of sinking his teeth into Sherlock’s throat -- in fact, it was a rather arousing prospect, having Sherlock under such intimate control...

Filled with a sudden lust, John rolled Sherlock onto his back, covering his body with his own, pinning one of Sherlock’s arms above his head before fiercely kissing his mouth, tasting a trace of his own blood. He would do this, finish this ritual, his lips sliding down that seductively long neck, some primal, pagan instinct guiding him, seeking the red heat beneath the white skin. John felt the penetration, heard the involuntary gasp, resisted the arch of Sherlock’s back as he tasted the first salty drops, his fingers grasping Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock moved his hands to John’s back, sliding them down past his waist, his long fingers gripping his arse, a sheen of slippery sweat on their chests and abdomens as he writhed under John. A frenzy overtook John as he swallowed deeply once, twice, until he forced himself to break his mouth away with a low moan.

He found himself rutting against Sherlock, animalistically thrusting his cock into the tight space between their bodies, pressing Sherlock down into the mattress, mouths open and tongues twining and groans escaping. John could feel himself at the edge, thrusting harder, then tipping, falling, coming with a raspy shout, his breath ragged as he felt Sherlock push his hand between them, his hand stripping at his own cock, letting out a moan, shuddering in hot release.

John collapsed atop Sherlock, their racing heartbeats palpable through the hot slickness of their torsos, and slid off onto the damp sheets, feeling dizzy, drunk, spent. He caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s neck, the dark mark along the side already appearing to be healing.

“It’s done,” Sherlock said quietly, moving to curl an arm around John’s waist, burying his face against his neck and shoulder.

John sighed, exhausted. Immortality, he mused before closing his eyes, very aptly smelled of sex, blood, wood smoke, and Sherlock.


	6. Chapter 6

Strange dreams floated in and out of John’s consciousness the rest of the night -- some were absurd, some abstract, some frightening; one was of war that made him jolt awake, swearing he heard the burst of shells outside the house. When a hand soothed down his back, he thought it was another dream, only to be momentarily stunned to find himself next to Sherlock. He settled his head back against the pillow, touching his neck with his fingers, finding no tangible sign of where Sherlock had marked him beyond a slight tenderness. Dreams and reality were blending confusingly together.

John pressed his back into Sherlock’s chest, finding comfort in his solidity before falling back into a deep sleep.

*******

John woke the next morning, his head slightly aching. He was alone in bed, the house silent. He lay there for several minutes, trying to reassemble the events of last night. It was almost too much to believe.

He rose, stumbled to the bathroom to look in the mirror at his neck. Only a bruise remained. He turned on the taps to the shower, hoping to clear his head.

After a shave, he dressed and was about to go downstairs when Sherlock appeared in the bedroom with two mugs of coffee. He handed one to John.

“How are you?” Sherlock finally asked.

John held the warm mug for a moment, took a sip, looked at Sherlock. “I don’t even know how to answer that. Fine, considering everything.”

Sherlock gave him a crooked smile, then moved a step closer. “Good.”

“So… what happens now?” John asked, struck by the normalcy of the coffee and morning light streaming through the windows.

“Oh, the usual routine. Back to London, new cases… ups, downs… life...” He paused, sensing John had a larger question.

“And afterwards? In the next life, we’ll… find each other?”

“Oh, assuredly. I’m not sure how it will unfold, but you'll arrive at Baker Street eventually.” Sherlock lifted his eyes to him. “I’d be lost without my Dr. Watson.”

They gazed at each other through wisps of steam, and John felt his blood instantly quicken. "One more question,” he said softly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“Last night -- what happened between us… was that the elixir, or…?”

Sherlock glanced down. “Given its composition, one would expect inhibitions to be lowered and perceptions altered, so it wouldn’t be incorrect to say that it allowed certain latent desires to surface...”

“So it wasn’t just the drink.”

“No.” He briefly reconsidered. "Well, the marking was ritualistic. The rest just... happened."

John drew closer, the hot coffee poised precariously between them, his eyes shifting to the bruise on Sherlock’s throat, then his mouth. “I don’t want to wait another lifetime,” he started, feeling the familiar charge between them intensifying, “I don’t want to waste another second of this one, so I need to tell you,” he paused, his voice low, “how much I want you back in that bed right now."

*******

Sherlock stood in the kitchen filling two mugs with coffee from a freshly brewed pot, the first two mugs having been abruptly abandoned in the bedroom. He passed one to John, their gaze lingering as Mycroft entered the room. He stopped short and examined them carefully. “Oh…” he said slowly. “Oh, I see…”

“See what?” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft cleared his throat delicately and pointed at his own neck. “I assume that’s a sign you’ve chosen to continue on, Dr. Watson. Welcome to the other side.”

John shot a glance at Sherlock, then nodded curtly in acknowledgment.

Mycroft continued to evaluate them. “If I may ask…” he hesitated, “what was the ritual like?”

“It’s private. You’ll just have to find out some lifetime, brother dear.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft replied noncommittally, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I wonder… what do you think of -- ” he stopped as both Sherlock and John turned their heads toward him. “Never mind.”

“Who?” Sherlock pressed. “Whose name were you going to say?”

“Never mind,” Mycroft repeated firmly, taking a seat at the table and opening up the paper.

“You know I’ll find out,” Sherlock needled him.

Mycroft shook the paper in irritation. “Don’t you have something to do?”

Sherlock smirked into his cup. “I can’t recall ever exploring the woods here.” He looked at John. “What do you think?”

“I think they’re dark and scary as hell.”

“Did you bring your gun?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock smiled at John.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You two really are a perfect match.”

Sherlock tore his eyes from John to stare pointedly at Mycroft. “When are you leaving?”

“This afternoon. Sooner, if possible.”

Sherlock drained his coffee and placed the empty cup on the table. “Fine. Shall we, then?” He turned and left the room, John hurriedly finishing his coffee, trailing after him to collect his gun and jacket from his room.

“Sherlock,” he called out at the top of the stairs, stopping Sherlock midway down. “What about the woods -- what’s in there?”

“Oh, ruins, crypts, vampires, if you believe local superstition. Or maybe just a drugs operation, or nothing at all."

John stared at him. “Vampires. You do see a correlation here, don’t you?”

Sherlock smiled. "Really, John, do I look like a vampire to you?" He turned, quickly descending the remaining steps and slinging his Belstaff over his shoulders in one fluid motion, the long coat swirling in a dark arc as he slipped his arms into the sleeves and pulled the collar up to his cheekbones.

John watched, mesmerized. Unsure of his answer, he followed anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you're feeling like you need more magical realism/supernatural/ sexy Johnlock, here's my other Halloween fic, loosely inspired by Mary Shelley's Frankenstein: [Lightning and Sea Glass](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4900213/chapters/11238121)
> 
> And here's another one: 'A Beautifully Frightening Revelation'


End file.
